Spring cleaning dusts off
remembrances of betrayal
and new beginnings.
Fifteen old paper ream boxes
bulging with the words of
so many children who trusted
I would keep them forever.
Maybe I will, maybe these
scribbled lines and typed
pages sitting in my garage
will animate, maybe they already
have - each graphite mark
elongating and escaping it's
cardboard tomb, stretching
like some horror movie parasite,
writhing into my veins as I slept,
slowly twisting and dissolving;
double helix ballerinas, maybe they
wake me at night sometimes.
Maybe the voices calling from
those boxes are Korotkoff sounds,
the urgent tap of arterial blood,
the whoosh and click of pulse
as it propels abandonedly forward
through this network of meat
and nerve and bone and brain.
I am mostly made up of those
words I have assigned to others,
but don't we know that every story
has been told already?
Don't we know our blood sounds
like the whispers of ghosts?
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